


Warm Days

by captainskellington



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, maybe Dean was a little self-conscious of his soulmate counter. Yes, it was stupid. Yes, he was aware of that. No, that wasn't going to stop him from worrying over it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Days

Dean hated warm days.

He silently cursed the heat that was so uncharacteristic for late November filtering through the wide windows spanning the front of the room, and tried not to scowl at the idiot standing on the other side of the counter who'd taken it upon himself to order a hot drink from the man in the long-sleeved sweater, today of all days.

He pushed up his sleeves reluctantly, painfully aware of the steadily decreasing inky black numerals flickering on the inside of his forearm. The very reason he didn't like warm days.

Sure, it's not like the rest of the world didn't have the very same thing decorating their skin in various sizes, colors and fonts, but...

He smiled politely at the moron as he handed him both his change and his steaming hot straight-from-the-depths-of-hell cocoa, being careful to angle his left arm as far out of view as was physically possible.

Okay, maybe Dean was a little self-conscious of his soulmate counter. Yes, it was stupid. Yes, he was aware of that. No, that wasn't going to stop him from worrying over it.

He was kind of a private guy, so it's not like anybody demanded to know how long he had before Eternal Happiness or what the hell ever. But it still kind of sucked, say, standing at his locker in school and hearing the cheers echo down the hallway as yet another perfect couple's number hit zero.

Not that he was bitter about it.

When that did happen - increasingly often, as the years went on - Charlie would always snort and roll her eyes at Dean with a conspirational nudge. But that didn't really make him feel better when he knew the delicate purple script tucked away in the crook of her elbow numbered weeks, not years.

As it happened, he was with her when her counter stopped. The moment he jokingly pointed out the gorgeous brunette with mischievous twinkling eyes and heard the quiet " _Oh,_ " from beside him, he knew. And, he might add, graciously stepped aside in order to give the girls some privacy.

Sure enough, the ink on her elbow had transformed to permanently read that exact time and date, and Charlie didn't shut up about her perfect girlfriend for the next month.

Benny wasn't much help either, him having found his girl in the sixth grade. Then there was Bela, who was one of the rare cases born without any number whatsoever. It was rumored that they could appear late on in life, or maybe her soulmate just hadn't been born yet. Not that anybody actually knew for certain. Either way, she didn't really seem to mind, and laughed at the ever-increasing age gap that would occur if the latter were true.

Worst of all was little Sammy, who didn't have to do anything but wander into kindergarten on the first day and run headfirst into a little girl with the prettiest locks of flowing blond hair in the world, and his soft blue ink was set for life.

Not that Dean begrudged his lucky little brother that one small peace of mind. But when it came down to it, he just wished his own number could have been lower to begin with... Or at least not so bold and blatantly obvious.

Hence the long sleeves to cover up his little ticker. One part shame, two parts " _I really don't care enough to talk about it I swear to god if one more person feeds me some cliché line about love being worth the wait I'll feed them this coffee machine._ "

People always seemed to think he needed reassuring about the damned thing. When, in reality, he preferred ignoring its very existence in his life, aided by long sleeves and the strings of bracelets Sammy kept wandering home with despite having no use for.

But, anyway. The reason he’d become increasingly focussed on his timer on this particular day? Maybe not entirely to do with the heat. That particular train of thought had been triggered by the sight of a young guy in one of the window booths with hectic dark hair and an entirely too-pleasant face. He must have been served by Ellen when Dean was otherwise occupied, because like _hell_ he would have forgotten that face.

And, yeah. Because of the whole counter thing, Dean didn’t really see the point of dating outside the soulmate spectrum. He didn’t see anything wrong with other people doing it, that happened all the time nowadays. None of that “saving yourself for The One” crap held any power whatsoever now, and fair enough if you wanted to get in practice or just have fun fooling around or whatever, it just wasn’t for Dean.

Except for the fact that the guy had glanced over his shoulder, caught Dean’s eye and grinned, and suddenly his heart twinged and his brain went into overdrive reevaluating every thought and decision he had ever made in an attempt to rewire itself just so he had a chance of seeing that grin up close more often. Along with other, much dirtier facial expressions that Dean had to make a conscious effort to wipe from his mind as the moronic cocoa-from-hell customer stepped up to the counter and effectively ruined his day… And view. And by the time he turned around after dealing with mush-for-brains’ order, the cute guy had gone.

Dean huffed out a small sigh. _Figures_.

Vaguely aware of fingers waving very close to his face, Dean blinked his eyes back into focus and looked up to see the amused face of his boss and sort of aunt staring back at him.

"Thinkin' about your little timebomb again?" Ellen grinned, warmth and humor teasing the lines of her face, as was getting more and more common when she talked with Dean.

"No," Dean said too quickly, and she laughed. And he did not blush, it was just hot in here, why didn't those god forsaken windows open, seriously.

" _Riiight_ ,” the vowel stretched in an affectionate tone. “Well at any rate, we're swapping over for the night now if you want to help."

Dean nodded eagerly. The Coffee Bar was an entirely unique little enterprise: masquerading as a sweet little coffee shop during the day, it took a half hour recess at 6.30 to completely transform into an all singing all dancing bar...pub type place.

It was, like, the Batman of the beverage world, and even now Dean still loved helping with the transition between the two. Ever since he was tall enough to hoist himself up onto the counter, he would sit and watch as Ellen and her various employees cleaned out the drinks machines, secured them to their perches, and spun and wheeled all the nooks and compartments around and away, swapping them for drinks cabinets and liquor displays and the like until the entire room was entirely unrecognizable.

He absentmindedly rubbed at his forearm, pushed any remaining thoughts of Cute Guy out of his mind, and went to work.

 

* * *

 

He could not, as it happened, stop thinking about Cute Guy. As the days and weeks and even months went on, Dean just could not shake the image of his bright grin and his dumb perfect hair and his incredibly blue eyes - yes, apparently it had at some point registered with him that they were that color, he was not staring shut up oh my _god_ \- from his mind.

Dean found himself picking up extra shifts just in the off-chance that he would return when Dean had a day off and he’d miss his chance to see him again, but he didn’t reappear at the Coffee Bar. And he kept trying to convince himself to forget about him. Like, they hadn’t even talked, right? And at any rate, Dean’s counter was still ticking, nice and steady. The guy wasn’t his soulmate, just some really attractive guy that had somehow taken over his mind after a fleeting five second almost-interaction.

So why did he _care_ so much? Why did Dean jump every time the Bar’s door opened, do a double-take at every messy mop of dark hair, consider every customer’s eyes and categorize them as too blue, not blue, and not blue enough?

If anyone noticed a change in his behavior, though, they said nothing. They probably just figured that he was getting jumpy because his counter was supposed to stop soon, even though Dean himself knew that it was still months until he would hit zero.

And then out of nowhere he got accepted to his “it’ll never happen, but what’s the harm in trying?” college two states over, and everything happened in a whirlwind of rapid fire from that point on. And for the most part, he was grateful, and that part of him was realizing that he needed a fresh start. He’d been too hung up on this guy he’d never even spoken to, and it was unhealthy. He needed an out, something to challenge him and get him thinking and contributing to society like a normal human being again, and the mechanical engineering course in Michigan offered him that very opportunity.

Until, that is, he had a massive anxiety attack four months into the course upon realizing that mechanical engineering was really not his thing in any way, shape or form, and ended up booting his ass right back to where he’d started.

Oh well.

At least he’d tried.

And Ellen hadn’t given his job away, so there was that.

In fact, as soon as he’d set foot on the premises she had fallen to her knees and begged him to return to her employment, offering promotion if Dean would restore order to the “chaos” he’d apparently left her in, to the amusement of the customers milling around the Bar. (He could have sworn one who’d filmed the whole debacle on his phone afterwards said, “I would have put money on her being about to burst into song,” but that said it was difficult to hear anything much when Ellen had you in a bear hug.)

So that was, like, two months ago. And Dean was totally content in being back at his old familiar home and work, especially after the brief span at college had shaken him out of his moody slump and given him a brighter perspective on life, despite causing him emotional trauma and lumping him with a debt he’d be working off for years regardless of the fact he had received no qualifications through the damn course.

But, you know. Clouds. Silver linings. All that jazz.

And now he was wandering around on another fairly warm November night, wiping down tables and singing showtunes from Chicago in preparation for the swap over - which Ellen was letting him do _himself_ for the _first time ever_. A truly momentous occasion. (Although she would literally be just upstairs because she, y’know, _lived_ there, but you’re missing the point.)

It wasn’t until he stepped back to return to the bar and set up drinks that he realized what table he’d been at, and for the first time in almost a year the cute guy’s face reappeared in the front of his mind, clear as the day he’d first seen him. Dean stumbled a bit getting back to the bar because of the completely unexpected and not entirely welcome reminder, then shoved it out of his head. He’d moved on, just as the guy himself had probably moved on after merely passing through the Bar that one time and proceeding to never return.

Not that Dean was bitter over it.

Shaking his head to clear it and surveying the room one last time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything - then once more just for absolute peace of mind - Dean crossed over to the door and flipped the sign from _Closed_ to _Open_ , flicking on the appropriate lights and the sockets powering the TV and sound system as he went.

It was going to be a relatively busy one tonight, and Ellen would join him in a while, she’d said. In the meantime Dean grinned and nodded at the first few customers trailing in through the door - most of them regulars - and poured their drinks amidst cheerful exchanges of small talk and mild insults, and in one case the use of the phrase “bar wench”.

From the conversations flooding the air as the trickle of customers grew steadier and the room filled up, Dean gathered that there was some “game” or other on later. He wouldn’t know, to him it seemed as though there was always a game on - every night he worked here, anyway. And if there wasn’t something live, there would be reruns of other games. He didn’t really see the attraction, in all honesty, but hey, as long as everyone paid for their drinks he really couldn’t care less.

During a lull in the near constant stream of order taking, drink pouring and money exchanging, he crouched behind the bar to check stock and make sure there were enough clean glasses left to last the night. If not he could always put Jo on dishwasher duty, because the look on her face when he bossed her around would always be priceless, if slightly terrifying.

He pushed up his sleeves and delved into the back of the cupboard, the pleasant buzz of the room becoming muted as he was enveloped by the darkness of the space. Satisfied with the numbers, he was about to draw out and return to bar duty when he spotted his counter and froze.

He was so startled, he didn’t even hear somebody approach the bar and try to get his attention until a quiet but firm “Excuse me?” made him jump and crack his head off the counter.

“Shit,” he swore, hand coming up to feel the back of his head. Christ, he hoped nobody had seen that. Except, apparently, somebody had.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you-” the man had lifted the bar flap and Dean could feel him crouched beside him on the floor. “Here, let me see,” a gentle hand nudged his out of the way and inspected what Dean presumed was going to be one hell of a bruise at some point in the near future.

“No, it’s fine, I should have been paying attention-” Dean pulled away to look at the guy and everything he’d intended to say evaporated from his mind. Because it wasn’t just any guy. It was Cute Guy. Kneeling beside him on the floor of the bar where he worked as the rest of the room carried on with whatever it was they were doing, totally oblivious, hand hovering just beside his head, look of shock on his face that Dean guessed was very similar to his own.

But Dean didn’t really register any of this. Because right then he felt a thrill race up his arm and his eyes shot to the exposed ink on the inside of his elbow that now read as a line of perfect, round zeroes.

“You-” he choked out, eyes darting back up to the Shocked Cute Guy beside him. Spurred on by sheer emotion, Dean reached out both hands and pushed up the other guy’s sleeves just enough to see spidery white zeroes scrawled across his inner forearm. The guy tentatively reached out his own hand and grasped Dean’s arm, running his thumb over the ink, apparently unable to speak.

A fountain of sparks erupted in Dean’s stomach as the guy raised those gorgeous blue eyes to stare at him. Slowly, the shocked expression faded away and he cracked a lopsided grin that made Dean’s entire soul melt. “You,” he repeated in agreement, voice deep and gravelly.

At a loss for words, all Dean could do was grin back, breathlessly choke out “Hi,” then return to staring at their now rightly grasped arms, where he noticed something strange. “Hey, wait.”

The previously jet black ink decorating his arm was changing, streaks of white beginning to run through it like paint dropped from a brush into water, zeroes morphing into the exact date and time of approximately a minute after Dean hit his head. A quick glance at Cute Guy’s arm revealed much the same, though the spidery white of his numerals were now laced with black.

“Weird,” Cute Guy whispered, then, unable to contain himself, looked back up at Dean and laughed a warm, exhilarated laugh.

“I’m Dean,” he blurted out. He could feel himself blushing, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I’m Castiel,” came the reply.

“Awesome, great, now I can stop just calling you ‘Cute Guy’ whenever I think about you.” Dean did not, in his defence, mean to admit to that, but apparently under extenuating circumstances such as, oh, I don’t know, _meeting his soulmate_ , he no longer had any brain-to-mouth filter.

“Yeah? Well, do I have to stop calling you ‘hot bartender guy who disappeared for like, a year, and nearly broke my heart in the process’? Because I was becoming rather attached to it,” Castiel laughed.

Dean made an apologetic noise. “Hey, if I’d known who you were, I would never have left. Though to be fair, I didn’t see you again before I left, so I really couldn’t have known, could I? I just assumed that, you know, given that I’d seen you and my counter was still ticking, you were just some really attractive guy whose face I couldn’t get out of my head.”

Castiel shook his head, “I didn’t know either, at first I thought the same. But then, like you said, I just could not stop thinking about you, and I did a little research. Apparently it differs for everyone, but in some cases all you have to do is see each other, others you only have to hear each other, and in others still you have to be within touching distance and talking for your counter to stop. So,” he paused. “As soon as I had it figured out I came back here, but you’d already left and I thought I’d lost my only chance. But my counter kept going, so I just kind of kept hoping against hope that you’d come back… And here you are.”

Another pause, and then, “I really am sorry about making you hit your head, by the way.”

“Don’t worry about it, the outcome was totally worth it,” Dean couldn’t stop grinning, his face was starting to hurt. But wow, the level of not-caring he was feeling.

“What time do you get off work?” Castiel asked, suddenly serious. Dean felt something warm settle low in his stomach at the change in his voice.

“A few hours yet,” he admitted, disappointed in himself. “But, oh my god, I’d forgotten where we were, I’m supposed to be working. Like, now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Castiel said, looking around the room as though it had literally just materialized around them. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

As he said it, a menacing shadow loomed over them. “You sure about that, kid?”

Ellen was standing before them, hands on hips, looking for all the world as if she was going to start a fight. But then something registered in her face as she took in Dean and Castiel crouched so close, arms clasped together and sleeves rolled up to their elbows, stupid grins still firmly etched across their faces.

“Are you…?” she began to ask, then decided it was stupid to even bother and instead punched the air, crowing triumphantly. “Thank _god_ , Dean, it’s about time!” She offered a hand to each of them and pulled them to their feet.

Once they were standing, she extended her hand to Castiel. “Ellen Harvelle. Dean’s boss, idol, and general teacher of all things vaguely important.”

Castiel, with a glance at Dean that he could already read as saying ‘ _Your family are nuts. I’ll take it_ ’, took her hand and shook it firmly. “Castiel Novak, ma’am. Dean’s soulmate, as of approximately five minutes ago.”

Dean had to slap a hand to his mouth to muffle a girly noise that vaguely resembled a giggle in an attempt to retain some of the manliness that he wasn’t even entirely sure he had been in possession of to begin with. Castiel, not missing a beat, reeled him in closer with the hand Dean hadn’t even realized he was still holding and kissed the side of his head.

“Fantastic. Well, you, go take the rest of the night off. I’ll get Jo round to cover, she’s bound to be in here somewhere. Dean, I’m calling your mother to tell her at some point, don’t even try to stop me. And in the meantime-” here she leaned over and rang a bell on the counter. “COUNTERHIT HAPPY HOUR!”

She grinned at the roar of approval that went up at that, then turned back to face the two men. “Now, you two lovebirds go and have fun.”

“Well, if you insist,” Castiel took that as his cue to exit the bar area, Dean in tow.

“Thanks, Ellen!” Dean called breathlessly as he was dragged unceremoniously away. Not that he cared.

That night, they didn’t even leave the Bar til well after closing, offering to help Jo and Ellen clear away the night’s debris. But in the meantime, they spent every second just grinning, talking, and catching up on every moment of each other’s lives they’d missed so far, despite feeling as though they’d known each other forever.

And all the while, they both kept their sleeves rolled all the way up, matched mixed inks visible below entangled hands resting on the table.

After all, it was a warm day.

And Dean was really starting to like warm days.

**Author's Note:**

> I am incredibly sorry for how out of character Dean probably was. I wrote this at 3am with a head cold.  
> Actually, no, no regrets.  
> I did a thing.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Also thanks to Vikki for the nagging. I will finish that Stony for you some day.
> 
> EDIT: Hi guys! This got a lot more attention than I was expecting it to, and I love you all a whole lot for that!  
> Just thought I'd add that if you want me, I'm over on Tumblr at [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com), and Twitter at @isengardweeps :)  
> Come say hi! And thank you so so so much for reading <333


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